


Sparta, Tennessee

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 09:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15946658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: The car shudders to a stop until they’re left with nothing but their quick panting breaths and the stillness of the air right before a storm in Sparta, Tennessee.  It’s inconceivable to her that she could’ve sat beside him in a car for hours before and pretended not to feel this.





	Sparta, Tennessee

There’s something she never realized would happen once she and Mulder finally crossed that line: That she’d be aroused. Embarrassingly so.  All the time. 

Like when he passes her a coffee and their fingers brush.  Like when he slips past her chair to get at the files.  Like when he leans down to retrieve one of the stupid pencils that fell from the ceiling, just narrowly missing his head.  That would probably do it, too—a pencil hitting him on the head.

Anything. Everything.  Him breathing, him talking, him _existing_ beside her, driving across Interstate 40 outside Sparta, Tennessee, in another damn rental car that quite clearly someone smoked in despite signing a very official contract prohibiting it.  

She needs a fucking cigarette.

She needs to start carrying extra panties in her purse.

It’s only been a week, she reminds herself.  Perfectly normal to want him this desperately this early on.   _We’re on a case,_ she tells herself. _You’re not allowed to want him like this on a case._ Her body laughs at her; it outright guffaws.  It’s spent the last seven years pretending not to want Fox Mulder, and now… now that every soft pink bit of it has been in his mouth, sorry, there’s no pretending anymore.  There’s only aching and yearning and throbbing and pulsing and….

Christ.  

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, thinking of dead bodies and Y incisions and pulpy, red organs instead of the texture of his tongue.  And that thing he did with it last night.  And the way she’d bucked against his mouth and whimpered _fuck_ in a voice that’d never come from her mouth before while her fingers clenched in the sheets.   

She looks out the window and subtly squeezes her thighs together.  They’re slick, sticky. She can’t even sit in a car with him for an hour without having trouble breathing and needing a change of clothes.  She’s never been this desperate for a man. She’s never even been _desperate_ for a man. Not before him anyway.  

There are so many damn cows in Sparta, Tennessee.

“It looks like rain,” she says, attempting to be the rational, practical Dana Scully of eight days ago, the one who could control her own body in a car, the one who used drives like this to catch up on the case, the one who still didn’t know the feel of his lips against her stiff and aching nipple… “Hopefully the storm won’t hit until—“

“I can smell you, you know,” he says, so low she can barely hear it. “Christ, Scully, do you have any idea what that does to me?” Feral, he sounds positively feral.

She sucks in a breath and closes her eyes, her problem multiplying tenfold.  “God, Mulder,” she breathes.  Propriety tells her to be embarrassed, but the sound of his voice tells her she has permission to fuck propriety.  Or at least to fuck him.

His brow is damp and his knuckles white against the steering wheel. He wants it as badly as she does.

The tires squeal as he turns off the highway and onto a gravel road.  No words necessary.  It’s dusk and the sky is just beginning to darken.  There’s nothing around for miles.  All she can think about is the way his voice cracked on her name that first time he slipped inside her. The way his teeth left marks where they pressed against her skin.  The way she came and she came and she came, not because the sex was anything out of the ordinary, but because it was Mulder, because it was _him_.  

Her cheeks are flushed and her breaths shallow. She wonders whether she’ll ever be able to ride with him in a car again and not feel this way.  Whether she ever wants to.  

The clouds are moving in.

The car shudders to a stop until they’re left with nothing but their quick panting breaths and the stillness of the air right before a storm in Sparta, Tennessee.  She could die from the tension. It’s inconceivable to her that she could’ve sat beside him in a car for hours before and pretended not to feel this.

He reaches for her hand and draws it back across the console, presses it against the hard ridge beneath his dress slacks and moans.  She looks into his eyes and breathes his name.

Propriety fights to be heard again, telling her they’re on a case, telling her fucking in a rental car is against the rules and most definitely in violation of that contract they signed, but she unbuckles her seatbelt anyway.  

She was never a rule-breaker before she met Fox Mulder.  

“C’mere, Scully” he growls. He shoves back his seat as raindrops begin to fall, drags her across the console to straddle his lap. Doesn’t matter she barely fits, doesn’t matter that eight days ago, she’d have claimed she doesn’t need this.  

“You want it bad, huh?” he asks, hands smoothing up her back then down to grip her ass. She drops her forehead against his.

“God, Mulder, I’ve never… like this…,” she whispers, grinding herself against him, not caring how wanton or needy she seems.  

“Yeah?” he breathes, thrusting against her until she’s whimpering.  He’s hard, so hard.  She needs him like air.

He shoves her skirt higher, trailing his fingertips over the tops of her thighs, then dipping his thumbs lower to find slickened skin.

“Fuck…,” he whispers.

“Please,” she pants.  She nudges her pelvis forward.

“We really shouldn’t…,” he murmurs, circling with his thumbs, grazing just the edges of her panties, “…on a case and all…” He leans forward to suck her earlobe into his mouth. She doesn’t even have the energy to be irritated by his teasing.  She only has the energy to want, to need, to ache.  

“Mulder…,” she whines, so on edge she’s trembling.  Her lips are slack, and she slides them wet and open across his jaw.  “I need…” The rain’s coming harder now, blurring the windows, pounding against the roof of the car.  Seven years ago, standing in a cemetery in Oregon, could she have possibly fathomed this?

He catches her lips, slides his tongue along the roof of her mouth, kisses her until she’s rocking against him and gasping for air.  She takes his lower lip between her teeth and reaches to fumble with the buckle of his belt, but he shoves her hand away.  

“Not yet,” he says into her mouth like candy, “First…,” his hand is there, cupping her through drenched blue satin, “First, I wanna…,” and his thumb slips beneath, swiping bottom to top through her swollen, wet folds.

She moans, chasing his fingers with her hips and spreading her legs further, helping him push her panties aside so he can finally, _finally_ touch her.  

She’s never behaved this way in her life. This past week with him, these past seven years with him— he’s not only affected her mind and her heart, but her body, too, down to its most elemental state—he’s rearranged her at a cellular level .  She rides his fingers as though her life depends on it, lips to his temple and fingers in his hair, pouring rain outside.  There’s nothing on earth right now but this this this.

“You’re amazing,” he mumbles against her jaw, her neck, her clavicle, “D’you know that, Scully? Amazing.”  His unoccupied hand yanks at her top to find her breasts, shoves up her bra to get at her nipples.  She’s sensitive, so sensitive there, and when his lips close around the needy pink skin, she whimpers, gripping his hair so tightly he groans.

She comes unexpectedly, a crack of thunder outside and his thumb at her clit, a gasped _oh my God_ as she grinds herself over and over again into his hand.  

More though, more— his buckle now— their hands tangled and frantic beneath her, pants and boxers shoved to his knees.  She grasps the door handle, the arm rest, anything she can find, muscles still twitching and begging for more. There’s an urgency that hasn’t been there these past seven days, one she feels in her chest, in her fingers, in her toes. They whine into each other’s mouths, clench fingers into each other’s skin.  His legs are too long and the steering wheel’s in the way, but the places that matter are perfect.  With arms wrapped tightly around his neck, she breathes between each frenzied thrust, “Forever… Mulder… like this… forever…”

She falls against him, nose beneath his chin, and he gives her _forever_ , and forever and forever and forever, there in a rented Ford, with thunder outside and rain streaming down, in the middle of a gravel road in Sparta, Tennessee.  

They lay slumped together afterwards, in that front bucket seat, exchanging soft desperate kisses and sweet whispered words, until the thunder fades and the rain starts to lighten. They’ll have bruises in new places tomorrow and dry cleaning to do.  There’ll be autopsies and questions with no answers.

Turning back onto the highway, gravel spitting beneath them, he reaches across the console and takes her hand. Squeezes.  She tucks her chin to her chest, hiding a smile, then looks out the window and says, “I just may like Sparta, Tennessee.”


End file.
